I have to admit it. It's been the Rolling Stones' month: new single, new album, first British tour for donkeys' years. All the excitement's been theirs, all the_ pages in the papers, all the overnight queues. Except. The only riot this month, the only tomato throwing, policeman squashing, righteous anger came from the Osmonds’ fans. So. Every picture tells a story. . I’ve stopped being amazed by the

Stones doing it again - so they bloody should, they’ve had the most practice. What Joes always surprise me is how much they go on meaning to people. And Stones people come out of the cracks - they aren’t pop people at all otherwise. In the day-to-day market place the Stones are just another group — “Angie” is less exciting than Sweet’s “Ballroom Blitz” or Slade’s “My Friend Stan,” Mick Jagger is less sexy than David Essex, the Stones’ appearances stir less hysteria than Donny Osmond’s. But the Stones don’t operate in the usual market, they bring their customers with them, their own roadies and groupies. For Stones people the Stones are rock, by definition. Their question is not whether Goafs Head Soup is good or not, not whether it’s better than Exile On Main Street, but more simply : what have they got to say for themselves this time? 1973.JhTIfyoutoCT to the Stones and not much else, it’s an important question — not just for a world vision either. For Stones people, a Stones record decides the state of rock. As long as~the Stones are alive, magic is afoot. Knock ’em and disenchant the world.